Wolverine VS Jack Reacher: Old Scores
by Rhonnel Ferry
Disclaimer: I do not own Wolverine or Jack Reacher or any trademarked character in this fan made story.
I'm tired. Not physically, no. Can't get tired physically much. Not really. Not even if I wanted to. Can't get drunk much either. Been drinkin' at this bar since noon. Patrons have come and gone. Still no sign of the guy I'm waitin' for though. It's not a noisy bar. I don't like the noisy bars. No happy party goers here, no frat boys, no stag parties. Bars, or rather, rat holes like these are frequented by people like me. Tired people. Mentally and emotionally tired people. And I got no healin' factor for that.
This fat guy sittin' on the stool next to me, glass of vodka in one hand, cigarette in the other. Probably 40 but looks 60. He knows what I'm talkin' about. He's been there. Could be a salesman. Rough day. Doesn't wanna come home to the nagging wife just yet. So he sits here. They say drinking won't solve your problems. Well, when your problems have no solutions, then you might as well.
I look around, and see that just about every other guy in this bar is just like him. Hell, they could be clones. Like Jamie Madrox, if he was a drunk loser.
Me? I been runnin'. Been runnin' for some time now. Been chased or hunted many times before, but this guy. He's relentless! Can't seem to shake 'em no matter what I do! If I didn't no any better, I'd think he had strong olfactory senses, too! But, nah. He 'aint no mutant. He's just smart. And good at what he does. Hell, maybe he's the best at what he does. Well, so am I. And in a short while, when he gets here, I'm gonna show 'em exactly what I am the best at!
A couple o' more bottles later, the door swings open, and he finally shows up. Big guy. Around six foot five, and built like a panzer. He calmly scans the room, and easily finds me at the counter. I give 'em a wave, then take another swig. He walks over to me. There's a woman with 'em. Tall. Brunette. Very attractive. Like a supermodel who decides to switch careers half way, and becomes a cop.
"Logan?" the big man begins in a deep voice. "My name's-"
"Jack Reacher," I finish for 'em. "We met before. Fleetingly. Long time ago. And I never forget a face,...or a scent."
Jack Reacher says nothing. Not much of a talker, this guy. So I continue.
"You're a military policeman. Canadian government asked for your help to catch me once."
"I was...a military policeman," he corrects me. "Retired. Couldn't catch up to you at all back then. I was young. Inexperienced."
"Then it looks like you and I got some old scores to settle."
"The Canadian government has a score to settle with you," the supermodel cop tells me in a very bureaucratic tone. "That's what I'm here for. He's just a freelance consultant."
"Well, if you two plan on slapping some cuffs on me, you're very welcome to try."
"Hey!" the bartender butts in. "You guys gonna cause trouble, you better do it outside!"
Reacher doesn't answer, but he nods at the bartender.
"Don't run, Logan," the big man warns me, sounding more like the low growl of some very large, wild dog.
"I'm done running from you. Reacher."
#
It's chilly outside in the parking lot. Sun's about to rise in about an hour. Not a lot of vehicles out here. Couple of old, dull-colored subcompact cars, a pick up truck, a luxury SUV that's a little out of place. Must belong to the female government agent. And of course, my 1963 Harley Davidson DuoGlide. No audience, either. The patrons in the rat hole are too preoccupied with self-pity to be interested in a fist fight. Cold weather doesn't bother me. I go huntin' in the Canadian Rockies buck naked. Obviously doesn't bother Reacher, too. He hands his jacket over to the supermodel cop.
"Why are you doing it this way?" I hear her ask him. "Do you two have some kind of macho, grudge match thing going?"
"Look at 'em," he whispers. (If not for my heightened senses, I never woulda' heard him.) "Guy like that's not gonna let us take 'em in without a fight. And I'd rather not shoot him. Don't worry. You see how many empty bottles there were on that counter in front of 'em? Guy that size has got to be wasted by now. He's in no condition to brawl."
Oh, so he makes short jokes, does he?! I'm tempted to pop out the claws. But I wont need them. This guy's big, but he's not Sentinel big. He's not even Blob big.
I'm wrong. I throw the first punch. A left straight. He catches it in that giant mitt of his, and easily crushes my knuckles. Oh, yeah. Starting to miss the adamantium about now.
I start to scream in pain, but he interrupts me with a left punch to the gut. I buckle, and start coughing repeatedly, then look up just in time to get smashed in the face with a hard head-butt.
I probably have decades of fighting experience over this guy, but experience isn't everything. Experience taught me that. Every once in a while, you come across a fighting savant. Someone who easily, quickly, and naturally learns from every move, every mistake, and every opponent in every scuffle. Reacher is a savant. He knows just how to effectively and efficiently use that awesome strength of his.
My limp body collapses. Reacher releases my hand, turns, and walks back to the Canadian officer.
"Told ya," he cockily tells her.
Is he showin' off? Is he tryin' to get her in the sack? Well not at my expense. Something feral wakes inside me.
"Hey! Bub!" I angrily call him back.
He turns around. I show him my fingers as the bones correct and repair themselves. Then I clench the newly healed fist, and pop out the claws. I see only the slightest hint of mild surprise in his eyes. No trepidation whatsoever. That's a little disappointing. Still, it reveals that he wasn't aware that I'm a mutant. But what really catches my attention is the hot Canadian chick. No surprise in her eyes at all. Just confusion. So if she knows about the claws, why didn't she share that information with her consultant?
No time to think about it now. I gotta use this to my advantage. Reacher isn't prepared for the claws, but he seems to be the type of fighter that adapts quickly. I have to finish this fight fast!
I slash at him! His momentary surprise and unfamiliarity with my attack prevents him from evading. Still he reacts quickly and naturally, and raises an arm in defense. I cut his left forearm in stead of his face. The cut isn't deep. Man, this guy's hide is thick!
I follow up with a left upward thrust. But he catches my wrist before I could bury the bone claws into his stomach. He's adapting already.
I grab a handful of his hair with my free hand, and pull down just as I spring upward. He blocks my knee with the injured arm. But the force is too strong, even for him, that the back of his own hand still smashes into his face.
He staggers backward. A rare opening. No way to hit him with the claws. His reach is too long (that's not a pun), and he's ready for that attack by now. Fortunately, he seems to be averse to kicking. I, on the other hand, am not. So I rush forward, leap, and hit him with a flying kick right in his barrel chest, finally knocking him off his feet.
The fall frees the dog tags from under his shirt. I hear them jingle, and I am reminded that this man is a soldier, much like myself. Don't wanna have to finish him off. Hope he stays down.
He doesn't.
I prepare for his counter attack. But he isn't given the chance.
The Canadian Woman steps forward, and abruptly swats Reacher aside like a fly. His 250lbs bulk slams hard into the side of the pick up. All the windows shatter on impact!
"What happened to your adamantium?!" she menacingly demands.
"I dunno," I answer. "Go ask Magneto. He took it from me on some asteroid."
She puts her hand behind the trunk of a gray subcompact, and easily shoves it at me like the car is weightless.
I jump over it just in time. The front bumper crashes into a brick wall! Landing on the bent hood, I dash over the roof, and lunge at the super strong woman.
She catches me by my throat in a vise-like grip before I could stab her in the chest.
Brought down to my knees, I frantically start ripping at her arm with both claws. Her flesh is torn open and reveals metal endoskeleton underneath.
"What the hell are you? Reaver?" I manage to choke.
She doesn't answer my question.
"If you are no longer Weapon X, I have no reason to keep you alive," she maliciously tells me. "I will just take your carcass back to the lab where they can dissect it and-"
Her speech is interrupted by a bullet to the back. She turns, and I see Reacher pointing a smoking Glock 19 at her. He fires again. This time at her eye, and right into her positronic brain. The dead android falls, thankfully, releasing my severely bruised neck in the process.
Reacher holsters his weapon. He walks over to me, and effortlessly helps me up with one hand under my arm.
"Hard to tell the bad guys from the good guys anymore," he nonchalantly tells me.
"I don't blame ya'. Especially if the bad guy wears a pretty face like that. By the way, how'd you know she was the bad guy? Wait. Don't tell me. The claws, right? She didn't tell you about the claws. So you figured she was probably lying to you about other stuff, too."
"No. She backhanded me into a pick up. I have a rule. If you backhand me into a pick up, you're no friend o' mine."
"Good rule."
"Cops'll be comin' soon. 'Coz o' the gunshots. You gonna run?"
"Hell, no. I'm goin' back inside to finish my beer."
"They got coffee?"
"Maybe. Hey,...be honest with me. When I popped out the claws, you got intimidated a little, right?" I ask him as we walk back to the rat hole.
"Not really," he answers. "That yellow spandex suit and mask you're wearing, though. That kinda' freaked me out some."
END